Disciolto
by drinktea
Summary: [Pregame] [Tseng & Reno] Tseng makes out the telltale curve of the edge of his mouth [still a smirk]. He enunciates clearly, concealing his ire, 'If you will not come of your own accord, other measures will be taken.'


_Disclaimer: Square Enix owns all._

Sakura-Angel: _Disciolto_ means skillful/dexterous in Italian. It's pretty, and fitting.  
It is important to read this knowing that this has no connections to Before Crisis. That world does not exist for the duration of this story. Now, read on, and I sincerely hope you enjoy. I haven't "seriously" written Tseng before, so I'd be super glad if you left some feedback as well.

**Disciolto**

He's got a funny way of walking, Tseng notices.

His gait's a little awkward and he tends to favour his right leg. The technique is well concealed enough so that nobody could pick up on it right away. But Tseng would bet his best M-9 that he's broken his leg. Twice.

He noticed him noticing him following him around an hour ago, but he's done nothing about it. So far, he's walked three-quarters of the sector and made small talk with three restaurant owners. He's one of those rare breeds - gruff but charismatic, charming but not slimy. He has no following to Tseng's eye, though he is in every way capable.

Tseng should ask him to halt. Because if the boy led him to some place where he'd be at a disadvantage that just wouldn't do, would it? 

Then again, he hasn't had a good challenge for Shiva knows how long, and he's gotten rather bored with this job. Which is funny, because this really is the least boring job he could think of. Shin-Ra's invincibility makes it no fun is all.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to halt." Even when not in command, Tseng sounds commanding.

He halts, and Tseng is given the impression that he has expected this all along. He turns to face him, and the sad amount of lighting gives his eyes a sickly yellow tint. Tseng is once again caught the slightest bit off guard, but is glad for it. A stupider man would not have looked his opponent in the eye. 

"May I ask why?" His expression is impassive; he gives nothing away. But, as Tseng knows so very well, therein lies his weakness.

He is far too young for this business - perhaps eighteen - but he is also too young for his attitude. Tseng has seen many a disturbing occurence in his years as an elite Turk, but nothing gets him quite like children forced to grow. There is something wrong about it, something he cannot place his finger on... 

"I am unable to explain here. If you would join me," he replies sturdily, and inclines his head towards a behemoth of a building.

The young man's thin lips curve into a small smirk, attitude flashing along with it. "Sorry. I ain't interested." He turns around with unsettling ease, obviously labelling Tseng as no threat.

"I'm afraid that it is of no consequence what your interests are," Tseng says without a flicker. "You are to come with me."

The red head bobs for a moment, and Tseng tries not to look too hard, but he makes out the telltale curve of the edge of his mouth - still a smirk. The yellow light goes on shining, and makes his skin the colour of thin oil, of acid. And then-

"Aren't you sick of it?"

Tseng needs to reflect only stoicism, and does not reply.

That's when he turns to the Turk, hans slipped into a pocket. "Of being a fat cat."

The Wutain feels a prickle run down the length of his spine. He has never not worked a day in his life. But this brat need not know. He enunciates clearly, concealing his ire, "If you will not come of your own accord, other measures will be taken." 

"Hit a sore spot, have I?" He tips his chin up, arrogant. Veiled beneath the arrogance is idiocy, Tseng convinces himself, for the boy thinks himself superior. A grave error.

"You flaunt you fancy suit and pretty gun, and expect to earn no resentment?"

A collective twitch of the fingers. 

"Probably born into a life of fortune, richer at birth than I'd be when I'm dead."

Itching in the soles of the feet.

"You've got it so damn good, you can throw those dirty lower sector shoes out at the end of the day..."

Strike. 

The reply is just as fast, maybe faster. Tseng makes to strike him in the abdomen - a plentiful supply of delicate organs, one well-placed hit is enough to make him think twice - but he is gone. Gone and above, jumping higher than humanly possible. He does a ridiculous looking split in the air as Tseng looks on, then most unexpectedly spins mid-air to catch the Turk with his heel.

He ducks before the boy has a chance ot make contact. Still hunched, he feigns left and goes right, earning precious seconds between them. He surveys the streets around them, then slows to close the distance between them.

He drops to the ground before the redhead's feet, and turns him over, trips him up. But the boy is good - he turns it into a backflip, avoiding the broken glass by puhing off Tseng's shoulders.

The landing is ungraceful and the impact is a lot on his leg - the one healed not quite right - his breathing is stitched just a bit. "Why me?"

"Because of this," Tseng replies sturdily, as if the battle is a thing. He is not in the slightest bit winded.

The young man - boy - prick - shifts his weight and puts Tseng on higher alert. "You want me... to fight?" He says it less like a question and more as a premonition, as if he's already seen the future.

"Yes." He flips his tie from over his shoulder. A misleading act - he is ready for anything.

"Company's already got you, what do they need me for?" he answers. From anyone else, Tseng would have thought this flattery, but he has a feeling that the boy doesn't do flattery, and knows he has already made his choice.

"I am all Shin-Ra has," he says simply. "More fighters are needed. You are a candidate." Tseng conveniently forgets to provide the boy with further details on the job. He doesn't need them, not yet.

He tilts his head, inquisitive enough to make this business easier on the Turk. "Why would I want this job?" 

Tseng gives a quick nod towards the tower, eyes still on that sallow skin. He knows the boy has decided, the boy knows he knows. "Come."

This time, he follows.

"You don't get to throw your shoes out," he tells the boy with a straight face.

He smirks once again, though Tseng can't see it. "My name's Reno."

Tseng pulls ahead on the sidewalk, slipping four fingers into a pocket. He stares coolly at the building ahead of them, seeing the years to come glowing brightly in his mind. He tightens his tie. "Tseng."


End file.
